by Vickie Hall
With the earring clasped in her hand, Bonnie lifted Charlie into her arms as Jeannie ran ahead of her. “The babysitter’s here, the babysitter’s here!” the little girl cried with excitement. ///////
It was Saturday afternoon, the day after their anniversary celebration. Bonnie and Irene had taken the Taggart children to buy new shoes. Glen had already done his normal Saturday chores and was rambling around the empty house looking for something to do when he remembered he had failed to produce the old year book for Ralph the previous evening.
Whistling a jaunty tune, he went into the hallway and pulled on a short rope tethered to the attic door. As the door came down, an extension of stairs descended from the opening. Glen climbed the narrow stairs and entered the attic. He fumbled for the string attached to a single light fixture suspended from the rafters. When he yanked it a stream of dusted light filled the cramped room.
He took an inventory of the Christmas decorations, an old sewing machine belonging to his mother, a hideous lamp he’d found at a garage sale, but that Bonnie wouldn’t allow in the house, and stacks of boxes piled against the angled walls. He lifted one down and pried open the crisscrossed flaps, peering inside with a twinge of excitement. He hadn’t seen the contents of this dusty box for years. He sat on the grubby floor and rummaged through it, pausing to look at his old report cards, some crude-looking drawings from a high school art class, an old cigar box containing a rock collection. He laughed and wondered why he’d kept any of it. When he found no yearbook he took down another box and began his search again.
As he lifted the flaps the harsh light from the single bulb glanced across a red box. He took it out and examined it. He shook it gently and could tell there was something inside. And then he remembered. This was the box he’d rescued from the trash, thinking Bonnie had thrown it out by mistake. She must have truly thrown it out because he’d never heard her asking about it, and in the excitement of that day, he’d completely forgotten of its rescue.
He recalled the first time he’d seen the box in Bonnie’s little apartment the day he’d helped her move. A vision flashed in his mind of the look on her face that day, the colorless pallor of her skin as he brought it toward her. He wondered now what made her throw it out. It had seemed so important to her back then.
The screws of the left hinge had come loose, and the one on the right looked as though it had been torn free. The lock was of the type that flipped up when opened, a metal tab released by pulling sideways on a gold button. Even though it was still locked, when he popped the remaining screw free from the right hinge the lid was able to be opened.
With Glen’s curiosity piqued, he lifted the lid and looked inside. He choked down the guilty feeling that rose in his throat as he stared at his wife’s private things. There were two photographs of Bonnie with a man he’d never met. He chuckled to himself and thought the man must have been an old boyfriend. It’s funny what women will keep, he thought to himself.
He placed the photos beside him and saw a piece of paper folded in half. Picking it up, he splayed it open. As his eyes scanned the document, his heart lurched into his throat. He could feel the blood in his veins run cold and his head began to pound. There must be an explanation, he told himself as he read over the marriage license again. There it was in black and white—John Peterson and Bonnie Denton, married January 5, 1945, issued in San Diego County.
Glen swallowed hard and tried to get his heart to slow its hammering. Bonnie Denton…is that my Bonnie? Was she married before? Was this John killed in the war and she didn’t tell me? His head was spinning with unanswered questions. His fingers fumbled over a little bank book, the kind used for savings accounts. Glen thumbed open the pages and saw regular deposits dated from 1942 to 1945, with a final withdrawal of over twelve thousand dollars.
He could no longer breathe. What did this all mean? Another paper presented itself. His fingers were trembling now as he read. John Peterson, born in Charlotte, South Carolina, mother, Harriet, father, Joseph, two brothers, Daniel and Lewis. Brown eyes, sandy hair, mole on left cheek, likes peanuts and hamburgers…
“Bonnie,” he heard himself whisper, “what is this…”
Another folded paper beneath the description of John Peterson stared back at Glen, daring him to open its secret. Tears formed in his eyes as he read from the marriage license, Arthur Jackson and Bonnie Brown, married October 17, 1944. He felt his heart rip in two, the betrayal so palpable he thought he was going to retch. Glen continued forcing himself to reveal everything dark and ugly contained in the red box.
He read paper after paper, marriage certificates for Allan Reinhold and Bonnie Jepson, February 1, 1944; Joseph Shippton and Bonnie Elliot, August 10, 1943; Wyatt Belka and Bonnie Garrett, June 14, 1943; Luther Shold and Bonnie Mackenzie, November 3, 1942.
His entire world collapsed in on him, spiraling him into more pain than he’d ever felt in his life. He thought he knew Bonnie, but now he realized he didn’t know her at all. He didn’t know anything about her. It was as if he had been living with a stranger for the last five years.
Rage began to claw at him with talons of icy steel. He shot to his feet and beat down the urge to hurl the box against the wall. Glen clasped his head between his hands as all the emotions swirled within him, frothing and churning in a sea of pain and betrayal.
He had to leave the house before Bonnie got back. He couldn’t look at her now. He had to go, try to think this through, try to make some sense of it. The photographs, the descriptions of each man, the marriage licenses burned his fingers as he shoved them back into the box. Tears welled in his eyes and his gut twisted on itself as he picked up the box and climbed down the attic stairs. Lifting the bottom step he gave it a shove and the stairs folded up on their spring-loaded mechanism and disappeared back into the attic, the little door following.
Glen stormed to the kitchen and scribbled out a note. Went to the office, be back soon. Glen cursed himself. Why was he concerned now about what she thought? What did it matter? What did any of it matter? Everything between them had been a lie.
The oppressive weight of her betrayal crushed his chest as he got into the car, the box of lies tucked under his arm. His lungs heaved with jagged breaths, his fingers fumbling to engage the key. He jammed the car in gear and sped from the driveway. It’s all been a lie…every minute of the last five years, a lie…I thought she loved me…
Glen drove blindly. He squealed around corners, drove too fast, not caring whether he lived or died. Everything was lost to him now; everything he’d believed in, had loved was destroyed by the secrets of the red box.
A bitter ache gouged his throat dry, and he could no longer see the road through his tears. Glen pulled the car into a parking lot and pummeled the steering wheel with his clenched fists. He screamed with an anguished pain that comes only from a tortured heart. Rivulets of tears scalded his face and he slumped against the car seat, racked with heaving sobs.
When he could no longer cry, when all he felt was numb and dull-minded, he opened the box. Slowly, as if he had no choice in the matter, Glen looked at each item again.
Luther Shold – born May 19, 1924 – farmer in Albert City, Kansas. Blonde hair, blue eyes, Navy communications, 4 sisters, parents Carl and Dagmar. Likes to go fishing, doesn’t like Chinese food, reads Jules Verne and H. G. Wells. Approx. 5’ 8”, nickname Spud. Calls me angel.
Glen let the paper fall beside him on the car seat. In the box was a cluster of Social Security cards held together with a paper clip. He took off the clip and shuffled through them. They all listed the first name as “Bonnie,” but had differing last names. Glen patted them together, replaced the clip, and set them aside.
He picked up a photograph of Bonnie grasping a light post. She was smiling, looking perfectly innocent. But as he studied her face, he could see there was no life in her eyes. They looked empty, like nothing he’d ever seen in her before.
Fresh tears welled in his eyes as he reviewed photo after pho
to of Bonnie with men he didn’t know, men who obviously didn’t know Bonnie any better than he did. What had happened to these men? Were they still alive? Had they survived the war? Maybe each of them had died in combat and Bonnie re-married after their deaths. He wanted to believe that, to make that true, but as he opened the little bank book, the evidence would not support his improbable theory. Deposits, made monthly, increasing in number confirmed that she was married to all of them simultaneously. The first deposit of fifty dollars was made in December of 1942. By July of 1943, two fifty-dollar deposits were made each month until August, when there were three fifty-dollar deposits. Each marriage, each year mounted in the book, providing Bonnie with three hundred dollars a month by March of 1945. The most telling deposit, however, was one for ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars…Glen knew that amount. He’d signed up for the government life insurance policy as well, making his father the beneficiary. The knot in his stomach tightened. Which one of these men had died to enrich Bonnie’s life? Which one of these poor suckers had given her what she’d wanted all along?
Glen couldn’t look at any more of the damming evidence from Bonnie’s past. He couldn’t rationalize her behavior—couldn’t accept it. He wondered now if she’d ever told him one truthful thing.
And then it hit him square between the eyes—what about his children? How would he ever be able to explain this to them when he couldn’t even explain it to himself? How would he ever make them understand? And what would they think of their mother as they grew older, and really did understand what she’d done?
Glen massaged his throbbing temples with annoyance. He had to think of his children now, had to protect them. But he didn’t know how or from what. Bonnie was so sweet and gentle with them, so loving. He never could have asked for a more wonderful mother for his children. And he’d seen the gratitude in her eyes when they’d been born—that was real, wasn’t it? Sadly, now he had to question even that.
There was one last paper in the box. It was worn and yellowed and didn’t look like any of the others. He took it out with a heavy sigh. There was no stopping now—he had to look at it, had to see this last painful thing. His fingers were vibrating again as he unfolded the page and began to read.
When I Grow Up
by Bonnie Murphy, September 23, 1934
When I grow up I will never work in the hot sun. I will have lots of money so I don’t have to work at all. I will
be nice to people and never hit them or make them cry. I will eat ice cream whenever I want and go to the movies all the time. When I grow up I will take mama and we will go far away and we won’t be afraid anymore. We will have pancakes for breakfast on Sundays and play in the park until after dark if we want. When I grow up I wil l put a light on in the hall so I won’t be scared of the dark and I will leave it on all the time so I can see when someone is coming and hide. But the best thing is someday I will have children and they will love me because I will be very good to them. I will play with them and love them back and never make them sad. And then I will be happy forever and ever.
Glen lowered the letter scribbled in pencil and found fresh tears stinging his eyes. He sighed out Bonnie’s name and returned everything to the box. Glen had to think, had to decide what to do. He was too raw to make a decision now, too wounded to think straight.
With the box in his hands, he got out of the car and opened the trunk. He shoved aside a pair of gray overalls he kept there for emergencies and covered the box with them. It would be safe in there until he knew what to do. Glen closed the trunk and palmed his hands against it, the cold metal piercing his skin. He’d left the house without a coat and felt the winter air fire a shiver through him. Glen got back into the car, the afternoon sun skimming the horizon of the Nebraska plains. As he started the engine, it began to snow.
Glen drove for another hour, trying to muster up the courage to go home. He didn’t know how he could face Bonnie, how he could ever look at her the same way again. That pained him as much as anything. Her betrayal had crushed him, had reached into his chest and ripped out his heart as surely as if she’d used her own hand. He’d loved her so much and now everything was different. It seemed incomprehensible that his entire life had changed in the blink of an eye.
Maybe he could pretend he’d never seen the red box. Maybe he could push the truth aside and pretend he would be all right. The last five years had been the best of his life. How could he give that up? How could he lose her? But there was no denying the sourness of her deception, the utter disregard for his trust. He had given her everything, and she had given him lies.
When Glen pulled into the driveway, he turned off the engine and sat there looking through the living room window. The curtains were open, the room brightly lit, and against the darkened night it looked like a movie screen, waiting for some actor to begin the scene. He scanned the wallpaper, the pattern Bonnie had agonized over for days, wanting to get just the right one. His dark eyes skimmed the contours of the furniture, coordinated with the flecks of color in the wallpaper. He could see the photographs of Jeannie and Charlie each at nine months old, their near-toothless grins reminders that they were growing so fast.
Bonnie came into the living room from the kitchen, her dress garnished with an apron, her brows slightly drawn with worry. Perhaps she’d heard the car pull into the drive and wondered why he hadn’t come inside. Maybe she could feel his pain coursing through the very walls of the house. The sight of her made Glen’s stomach twist again, wringing out more anguish than before. He whispered her name again, feeling the tang of it on his tongue, tasting the bitterness of betrayal.
He forced himself to open the car door, and as he did, glanced at his watch by the light of the living room window. The children would be in bed, he thought. That would make it easier for him. He walked to the back door, the snowflakes fat and thick, clinging to his hair, his shoulders. When he went inside, he stomped the snow from his feet and brush his hair with a bare hand.
“Honey?” Bonnie called, her voice growing louder as she neared. “Is that you? I thought I heard the car.”
Glen wasn’t prepared for the reaction her voice elicited in him. He felt himself cringe and then suddenly well with pain. He kept his eyes lowered, pretending to clean off his shoes as she came into the kitchen.
“I was surprised to see you’d gone in to work,” she said, her voice cheerful and airy. “That’s a first, isn’t it? Going in on a Saturday, I mean? And where’s your coat? It’s freezing outside.”
Glen nodded and brushed past her, not knowing how he was going to survive the next few moments. He felt broken, as if the slightest jar would send him into pieces. He tried to call up his anger, tried to steel himself against the assault of emotions that threatened to bring him down. He said nothing and headed for the bathroom.
He knew she followed him, could hear her feet padding behind him. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, trying to sound casual. He couldn’t face her yet. “Get warmed up.”
Bonnie surged past him and headed to the bedroom. “I’ll get out your nice warm robe. You can wrap up in it when you’re finished.”
Glen went into the bathroom and closed the door. He stripped off his clothes and went through with the pretense of the shower. When the hot water hit his skin, he realized how cold he was, cold to the core. Her treachery had seen to that. He shoved his head beneath the water and tried to drown out the thoughts echoing through his mind. He wished the water could dissolve him, could wash him down the drain to a forgetful nothingness.
He heard Bonnie come into the bathroom, heard her picking up his clothes. “I got the cutest little shoes for Jeannie today,” she said. “I can’t believe how fast she grew out of the last pair. And Charlie, too—he’s just sprouting like a weed.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
“Honey? Is everything okay? You seem kind of quiet.”
Glen mumbled something under the water and hoped that would suffice for an answer.
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br /> “The kids are asleep,” she said with a lazy drawl. “Need some company in there? I’ll scrub your back.”
“No,” he blurted out more forcefully than he intended. He leveled his voice. “I’m really tired. I think I’ll turn in early.”
“Oh.”
He could hear some disappointment in her voice. He’d never turned down an opportunity to share an intimate moment with Bonnie. He hated himself for feeling this way, and he hated her for hurting him so much.
“I hope you’re not coming down with something,” she said with a note of concern. “Maybe I should take your temperature.”
“I’m all right,” he said. “Just got chilled, that’s all.”
“I’ll make you some tea.” She left the bathroom.
Glen turned off the water, grateful she was gone. He toweled off and wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror, a habit he’d picked up years ago. The face that stared back at him was a stranger’s. His eyes seemed recessed in hollows that hadn’t been there before. He felt older, as if he’d aged a hundred years.
He hung the towel on the rack, switched off the light, and went to the bedroom across the hall. The plush robe lay on the bed where Bonnie had placed it. Tears pooled in his eyes. It was such a loving gesture, but now it seemed so empty to him. Glen climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. He faced the wall away from Bonnie’s side of the bed.
The hot shower had done nothing to warm him, and he thought he’d never feel warm again. He closed his eyes as he heard Bonnie coming down the hall. He heard her pause at the door, the tea cup rattling slightly in its saucer. “Honey?” she called softly.
Bonnie walked quietly across the carpeted floor and placed the teacup on the night stand beside Glen. She bent over him and ran her fingers over his damp hair. “Poor baby,” she whispered. When she leaned over to kiss his forehead, it was all Glen could do to keep from crying out. Bonnie crossed the room, turned out the light, and closed the door.